You’ve got the flu. You must have. You’ve got all the symptoms: damp sweats, shivering, pounding headache… cock hard as a rock. Thank god for the privacy of this trailer.
Occasionally, you wonder why you still lie to yourself after all this time, but you carry on doing it anyway. Lying is a bad habit, just like smoking.
You’re as straight as they come, you say. You fuck all the pretty girls with their narrow bodies. You finger their clits and screw them hard down on all fours. You sweet talk them to orgasm in Spike’s accent. Then you run away.
It’s all because of that failed marriage, you say. You have a family. You can’t bring in another person to mess things up. It’d be wrong.
Liar!
You look at yourself in the full length mirror, tatty redcoat undone, army breeches displaying your dick obscenely. With one hand on the hilt of your sword you rub the heel of your palm across that bulge, thinking about…
“Jim?”
Fuck! “Fuck! Yeah?” Fuck yeah, is what you yell when you shoot. You’ve been told that a lot.
There’s a laugh and then the trailer door opens and John’s standing there, large as fucking life, smiling that diamond encrusted grin. His hair is mussed and his greatcoat is open like a pair of arms welcoming you in. “Was that great? That was come-in-your-pants great.”
You almost do.
“It was good,” you say, hoping that throbbing dick of yours isn’t as noticeable as you think it might be.
You’re straight, remember. You screw all the little girls.
“Good? Fuck off! it was better than good and you know it.”
John is coming closer, big and looming, so damn alive and so damn male and so damn sure of himself. You get the shivers again and when he pulls you into his arms for a victory hug you know you should run. Run away, Jimmy, you have a family.
He smells like lemon and spice and fresh sweat and excitement. He smells like sex and you breathe in his pheromones. He feels like sex, hard and smooth and solid and if you keep thinking these things you will embarrass yourself and touch him. John has the kind of family that matters most. He’s married -- even if he hates the word.
You wrestle with your thoughts. Bicurious metrosex is in. A man can use moisturiser and wear hair products. Can kiss other men on the mouth in public and be gay or straight. Can talk about musicals and feelings and not have to know about N.F.L.. Can leave the label blank. But the thing is you’re not metrocurious. You’re just a desperate lonely liar.
“Don’t,” you say, pushing at Barrowman with both palms until he backs off. Hurt shows clear in those pale eyes and you feel bad. “It’s just… I’m tired… and dirty,” you finish up lamely.
How dirty are you?
How stupid? You had it there and you threw it away. You’re forty five years old, and you get your kicks from talking about masturbation in public. From doing that masturbation in private, all wrapped up in illicit thoughts.
You must be acting desperate now because John is looking at you and he’s oozing concern. Jesus fuck, don’t say anything kind. Please. Don’t try and make things better. Just leave. Please.
You’ll leave if he won’t. “I gotta go.” You gaze at your feet and lift your shoulders and shrug life away, wondering why even your voice doesn’t sound like you any longer.
Yeah, you gotta go now. Back to the hotel to jerk off some of that shame ‘til you can find you again. Right now you’re lost. Missing in action.
“Jim?”
Those greatcoat arms are flapping open, wings curling around you and you can’t move even if you wanted to. You don’t want to, by the way.
When you’re kissed it's like fire and you huddle in for more of that warmth. You open your mouth to it and you press your lips against his to feel the stubble. You suck at him like he’s yours.
You’re shaking more than ever now and yet somehow, somehow you get over to the couch and fall on to it. John’s there to cushion you and his hands are under your shirt, everywhere, everywhere, scrabbling to find you. When he flicks open the heavy leather belt and the sword falls away to the floor you already feel naked. When he bites into your neck and your shirt is undone and his fingers are walking, running into your pants, you feel a different kind of desperate.
Words babble out because you’re a talker: “Fuck!” “Yeah.” “More.” “Need it.” “Christ!” “There, just there.” “Fuck!”
He kneels over you, the weight of his body a comforter. He’s taking your hand and unzipping and he’s showing you what you need to know. You forget how to breathe at first, but then you lick dry lips and wrap your fingers around him, feeling the softness of skin as it slides back, smooth and warm and dreamy. You’re a dreamer. You must be dreaming.
“Fuuuuck,” he moans when you begin to squeeze.
You like that sound. You like it a hell of a lot.
“Fuuuucking hell.”
You jack him harder and he smothers you with his mouth, heat seeking tongue learning all about you, pretty lips covering up the smile that’s on your face.
In between kisses your clothes come off. In between jerks so do his. The blinds are open but you don’t give a shit that you’re naked on the couch, because, for once, this isn’t some lonely solo session. Barrowman’s here and he’s spitting into his palm and he’s gripping your prick and he’s fucking doing you. You.
You think of all the ways you’ve had sex. All the kinky filthy things the little girls have let you do--all in the name of Spike--but it’s been nothing. Nothing. Just a build up for this.
“More.” You need it. “Christ, I…”
Tumbling over onto the floor, you end up on a nest of clothing with a boot next to your ear and the cool metal of a scabbard resting against your thigh. John’s on top of you, smiling that shit-eating grin and you grin right back at him because, fuck, today you’re a brave man.
When he spits and wets you up you grin more. When his cock grinds into yours you want to laugh, because he might be on top of you, but you’re on top of the fucking world.
You buck up from the floor and lick along his collar bone. You pinch his nipples between finger and thumb and he fucks against you like he’s inside. Then, all of a sudden, it stops being about exploring sex and it becomes sex. You begin to fly, burying your face against his neck and breathing in that smell. Christ, you’ll never forget how good he smells.
“It’s good, it’s so fucking…”
You kiss him quiet and wrap your legs around his back and the pair of you do each other hard in a naked sweaty tangle of arms and legs and cocks and lips and tongues. When you come you’re too busy with your mouth to yell out a single, 'Fuck yeah.'
He gets there a minute after you. You watch him like you’re taking a photograph. You burn the image onto your brain so you won’t forget the way his tendons cord and his mouth opens and his eyes widen and then roll back a little. You reach down and scoop up a drop of his spunk then bring that finger to your mouth to taste him.
Because you may never be brave again.
DONE